


The Farm on the Hill

by AimeeApproves



Series: The Wardens and the Ward [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 03:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5769244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AimeeApproves/pseuds/AimeeApproves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you would have told Margaret that, someday, she, the Hero of Ferelden, would be idly sitting under a tree with a child on her lap while Alistair labored under the autumn sun, she would have punched you square in the face. It's not that she didn't like children or that she never wanted to be a mother. But that all belonged in another life. In this life, as a Grey Warden, she knew it was unfair, if not impossible. </p><p>But one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Farm on the Hill

“It’s a good land. Fresh water. Fertile soil. It’d be easy to live here, raise a family,” thought Alistair, measuring his surroundings.

The early autumn sun stretched its fingers across the prairie, bathing the land in its tawny light. Fields neatly laid in golden rows of wheat stood stark against a tumultuous living sea of grass. The sky hung enormous overhead, its deep blues punctuated by thin, docile clouds. Only the faintest bite carried on the wind betrayed the coming of winter.

“We wouldn’t last the year,” he concluded with a shudder.

A large oak blazed like fire from the top of a far off hill. Through a squint, Alistair thought he could make out their shapes in the shade. Margaret, propped against its trunk. Ser, ever-watchful at her side. And Harry, happily gathered on her lap.

The ache he felt to share this idyllic moment with them was only rivaled by the ache he felt in his back from felling the woefully sparse trees that surrounded the farmstead. 

“No wonder they make homes from dirt around here. Couldn’t find proper timber to hold up a tent, let alone a roof,” he muttered as he picked up his axe.

 

Margaret sat under an enormous oak tree and wondered how long it had been here. The rest of the countryside had been stripped bare by grassfire and blight. It had left the land rich and ready for harvest, but profoundly lonely. She felt like screaming just to see how for it would carry. Her mind was not built for idle afternoons. 

Ser sat some way off, scanning the horizon for – whatever Mabaris scanned for. 

“Probably food,” she surmised.

Her hand rested on a warm mound of hair, making her jump with surprise.

“Mama?” said the tiny head burrowed in her lap.

Ser, broke his vigil to investigate the noise. Sniffing intently at the wriggling, giggling form by his master’s side, he determined that this was no threat and returned to his watch.

Margaret smiled. For such a smart creature, that poor old boy found little Harry incredibly vexing. 

“Did you have a good nap?” she asked the child.

“I dreamed of griffons,” he said, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

“Oh did you?” she said with a chuckle. 

They’d settled in under the great oak tree while Alistair went to collect kindling. It had been a long day. Far too long for the fussy 4 year old. So she stroked his dark hair and told him about the Grey Wardens bravely riding their griffons into battle – deliberately skipping over the part about darkspawn – until he'd given into sleep.

His elven features, though softened by youth, were handsome. Large, steely eyes set against olive skin, were more often than not obscured by his shock of shaggy black hair. Inquisitive. Bright. Alert. She only hoped he'd be strong enough.

 

Alistair whistled and waited, rubbing his calloused hands. He was used to wielding a sword in battle, but employing the well-worn axe against scrub trees was arduous – more of a burden than a weapon.

Over the rise bounded Ser, tongue flopping from the side of his mouth with every leap, a rivulet of drool streaming behind him.

“Ah. Behold! The noblest creature in all of Ferelden,” he said as Ser slid to a halt. “Do you mind helping me with this, boy?”

Ser whined, but barked in agreement. Alistair lashed one bundle of brush to the faithful Mabari and the other to himself. He eyed the bundles with a grimace. His afternoon’s labors resulted in enough kindling for a hearty campfire, but it would have to do.

“I’m sorry,” he said under his breath as he and Ser began the slow trudge back to the earthen farmhouse.

 

Carrion crows cast a cold shadow over the humble farmstead.

Not a mile up the road, the Wardens easily dispatched a band of a dozen or so darkspawn, most of which were injured or dying. They were the last remnants of a larger horde that had descended upon the home sometime prior. 

They knew, he and Margaret. They could sense it. But even without the Taint, there’s no mistaking the smell of fresh death. It hung hot and fetid in the air, overpowering the senses with its viscous perversion.

When they approached the farmstead, the ground was still slick with gore. A couple dozen corrupted corpses littered the small courtyard that abutted three sides of the modest home. A few straggling fiends gurgled and choked on blood as Margaret and Alistair passed; they would see no mercy. 

In the center of the courtyard were eight vertical pikes, upon which were skewered the forms of eight people. A family, perhaps. A man and woman of middling age. An older woman with wild gray hair. And five children, none yet adults. Each stripped and gutted. Their eye sockets picked empty by crows. Tattered entrails hung around their necks. Patronizing smiles painted in blood on their contorted faces.

It was a grisly sight, even for the battle-hardened Wardens.

“A blight not a year passed and yet they live without a care. The fools – their blood – the children – it’s on th–” Margaret retched. 

Alistair rubbed her back as she brought up what was left of their breakfast. For her bravery, she was a gentle soul. He knew that and loved that. 

Ser stood motionless, his wide head was cocked and facing the empty house. 

“There’s nothing we can do here,” said Margaret, wiping her mouth and face. “Let’s go. I need to go. I can’t–” 

With a growl, Ser darted into the house. Alistair was close behind, sword at the ready. When his eyes finally adjusted to the dim light, he saw Ser raptly sniffing around a chest at the in a corner.

“What did you find this time?” he asked, exasperated, to the Mabari. “Probably something edible. And gross. Daft hound. One track mind, that one–“

There was the faintest of sounds coming from the chest. With a sharp inhale, he ordered Ser outside – which the Mabari grudgingly obliged.

Alistair stood still beside the chest. Margaret, silhouetted in the doorway with her shield and sword ready, joined him in silence.

A whimper. A sniffle. A muffled sound of homespun cloth against rough wood.

Alistair crouched down and slowly opened the lid a few inches.

“Hello, there,” he said, gently. The whimpers coming from inside the chest turned to sobs. “Oh, no-no-no! Don’t cry. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Alistair turned, face pleading to Margaret for intervention, but she must not have been able to discern his look of panic in the gloom. After a few moments, he continued at the chest, “If it’s alright with you, I’m going to open this the rest of the way. We’re the good guys – Grey Wardens. We just want to make sure you’re OK. But we have to get a look at you first.”

Margaret had made her way into the room and watched the scene in quiet curiosity. Alistair peered into the open chest. In it, a small boy, caked in blood and dirt, was curled into a tight ball with his hands covering his ears. Alistair softly placed his hand on the pitiful figure, the intensity of the boy’s breaths growing to panic. 

“There now. Don’t be afra–“

The boy screamed bloody murder. Alistair fell back in alarm, causing the trunk lid to crash shut.

“Alistair!” yelled Margaret with a jump. “What the hell did you do?”

In an instant, she'd crossed the room and thrown open the trunk lid. In one deft motion, she lifted the surprisingly light child and pressed him into her chest.

“You poor thing,” she gently cooed into the pathetic figure. “It’s OK. You’re OK. Just hold onto me, OK? I’ll keep you safe. Just hold on.”

She started toward the door to get a better look at her charge in the daylight, but stopped short.

“Alistair,” she whispered with mild panic. “We– I can’t go out there. He can’t see that. Not even on accident.”

“We’ll make camp down the road," he replied decidedly. "Away from – away.”

“Yes. Camp. OK,” she said, mostly for her own benefit, which shifted in an instant to an almost sing-song tone. “You hear that little bird. We’re going camping. It’ll be an adventure. But the safe, not scary kind. A fun adventure. I love fun adventures, don't you? And, guess what? If you’re good, brave boy, I’ll tell you about the griffons.”

She felt his small head nod and his grip tighten around her, which she took as approval, and motioned Alistair toward the chest. All that was left inside was a small stuffed bear and a urine-soaked blanket. Unsure what she intended to do with with either, Alistair held out both, wide-eyed and questioning.

“OK,” she started with a nod. “So, the first part of our adventure, we’re going to play pretend that we’re in Orzammar. Do you know what Orzammar is? It’s a whole city built inside a mountain. Isn’t that neat? But, because it’s under a mountain, it’s really dark down there. I’m so lucky that you’re a big, brave boy, though. Because big, brave boys don’t get scared of the dark, right? Right. Especially when they have their very own bear to protect them. So let’s put this blanket over our heads and pretend like we just walked into Orzammar. That’s how our adventure will begin…”

**Author's Note:**

> This will most likely be a three-part series. But more may come. Stay tuned, I suppose.


End file.
